The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Frayed, copper wiring bundles hang from the vaulted ceiling of a cramped, Art Deco subway tunnel. Like, a train with an unsettling, almost-but-not-quite-familiar emblem emblazoned on its side is somehow simultaneously arriving and departing the platform, the carriages blending into one another in a blurred, impossible motion. The air's thick with the smell of worn leather and burnt oil, and the soft hum of... uh, traction motors? fills the air, which is stale but carries an electric charge that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.